Solving More of the World's Problems

I am a man of solutions. When I see a problem, I find a solution. So it is no wonder I am at it again. Since the government has told me to cease sending them my ‘outrageous’ opinions or risk the consequences, I will share them with you. 

The problem I see is one unique to the city. When I take the train downtown for work, I get a good tour of some different neighborhoods along the way. If you didn’t know any better, you would swear that you were passing through Kiev just after the wall came down. The glum, dirty landscape can’t help but make you think about what you take for granted. 

I began to think that someone should really clean up these poor, dirty neighborhoods. It would boost morale for these people a little bit (but not too much we don’t want anyone to get any ideas and revolt). Everyone feels better and energized when they are working or living in a tidy space. 

The solution is simple. Goats. Now I know the first thing you were thinking is that it is inhumane to put goats in these poor neighborhoods to attract el chupacabra who can then eliminate the litterers. That’s really not where I was going, but I’m happy my readers have el chupacabra on the mind…you always have to be on the lookout.

Could you imagine this thing pouncing on a guy who throws a Jolly Rancher wrapper on the ground? Sweet!

But seriously, goats will eat anything! Have you seen the episode of Andrew Zimmern where he has an exotic food eat-off with a goat? While that may have been something I imagined after eating a strange flower, the message is still the same: the goat won. 

Andrew Zimmern ordering indigenous boys to find him more testicles to eat.

So if we release a small flotilla of goats into these dirty neighborhoods the tires, plastic bags, condoms, food wrappers, and old pornography will be gone in a year. I personally guarantee it. 

Personal Guarantee valid in Estonia, Latvia, and the Czech Republic.

As with all my plans there is an added bonus. It’s similar to when they offer you double the quantity of Sham-Wow products for the same low, low price.

With all these goats wandering around the city, an added food source for poor people is now easily available. This will allow the government to cut food stamps without the guilt of knowing they screwed over the poor (we all know that is the last thing they would ever do).  

This government issued guide will help people to properly take advantage of all the supreme tastiness a goat has to offer.

 In essence, goats will be the key to cleaning up the inner city, economic revival, and political healing. I’m starting to feel like this platform could have defeated Rahm Emmanuel in the mayoral race. Either way, we have to look forward and not to past hypothetical situations. I just want to say, “You’re welcome America, I knew you couldn’t do it without me.” 

This goat may save America's livelihood. Honor him by cooking him savory.

The Bald Eagle is Always Vigilant

As a patriotic American I take our country’s role of protecting freedom quite seriously. I carry my gun to wave in someone’s face if they infringe on my first amendment rights and I always call the police when I see suspicious foreigners. In fact, the police have told me I’m too attentive and that I will be served a subpoena if I call again. The price of vigilance is high.

Well it came as a surprise to me when I saw that the Department of Homeland Security has teamed up with Wal-Mart to help make our communities safer. It’s about god damn time my neighbors started making the same patriotic sacrifices I have been.

Select Wal-Mart check out lines will now have a video that you can watch while you buy your Martha Stewart underwear that will explain what Americans should be looking out for. By the way DHS, just save us some time and say brown people and foreigners because it makes it a lot easier for the ‘type’ of people shopping at Wal-Mart. The video also provides information about who should be contacted when suspicious activity occurs. 

While this is a novel idea it remains to be seen whether or not the plan will actually yield any terrorism arrests. I’ve been to Wal-Mart, and I don’t think I’ve ever noticed terrorists in the traditional sense. Terrorist is a general term referring to a person that incites terror. Honestly, I know nothing more terrifying than the people that shop at Wal-Mart. For some reason I don’t think Wal-Mart wants the majority of their clientele arrested on charges of terrorism. Unless, that is, they unveil a new legal service. 

I'm not sure if I should be chanting 'White Power!' or 'Bring on the Kool-Aid!'

What's more offensive, the catheter or the shirt with four horsemen riding into a lightning storm? Okay, probably the bag of pee.

The gloves keep his hands from soiling evidence as he hunts terrorists. The shirt allows his body to be cooled during times of heavy stress. True dedication.

A picture is worth a thousand words. Let's leave it with that.

In my research (yes, this was research) I came to an astonishing conclusion about the Department of Homeland Security's new plan to team up with Wal-Mart to stop terrorism. It seems like it will work if Wal-Mart customers keep their eyes open for suspicious activity. 

With that much Sprite, you must be making a fucking bomb.

Think about how wonderful it will be when Americans have a new class of patriotic heroes. No longer will heroism be restricted to Veterans, Police Officers, Firemen and women, and police dogs. It will give hope to a section of the population left out of this equation for too long. This my friends, just could be the next great American hero:

Click here for more about this story

Special thanks to People of Wal-Mart 

Setting the Record Straight

If you have been reading recently and did not notice anything awry, then shame on you. A few weeks ago I placed a post entitled All Hail Our Glorious Chinese Masters, a personal oath of allegiance to the reprehensible People’s Republic of China. You should all know by now I am a patriotic, gun loving, bumper sticker donning, war hawk, obese American through and through. These colors don’t run, baby.

The sheer fact that not one of you saw through this façade and rushed to my help is disgraceful. The anger stewed inside me and I thought of posting pictures of Sarah Jessica Parker to torture you.

I only have one carrot. Decisions, decisions. 

The fact of the matter was that three Chinese men were using me to try and corrupt the American psyche and held me against my volition. Little did they know that because few can handle the truth that spews from my orifices, only a select dedicated group of intellectuals read what I write. This was the first flaw of their plan. The second flaw was a cultural mistake. The ropes they used to restrict me may have been able to secure a Chinese man, but not this American behemoth. As I stomped their faces in I felt oddly like Gulliver, if he had gone on a whiskey-fueled rampage and smashed all the tiny people he met in Lilliput.

Thanks for ruining a good story for a generation, you fuck. 

So in order to restore my reputation as a man of national pride, I will now explain to you why you never have to leave the United States.

For many the word travel implies far off exotic places and foreign languages. This is a common misconception. Leaving the United States, the greatest country in the world (for any foreign readers), will only leave you disappointed. Let me squash the reasoning of anyone who tells you that you need to see the Eiffel Tower, Pyramids, Big Ben, Italian countryside, or any other of the countless potential mistakes you just may make. 

France would be great if it weren’t for those pesky French people

The French have an institution named the L'Académie française that protects the French language from the modern world. Basically new words must be approved before official use in the dialect. For example this is a sentence you would never hear in French: I was eating a Big Mac today while blogging then totally Facebooked it. To be completely honest, I can respect this. It is irritating to hear people make up words and expect to be respected when they go around talking like a fool.

However, I’m not sure if there is a similar French institution that must approve inventions before they are used. The reason I say this is because when riding the Metro in Paris, you would swear that no one in the country has heard of deodorant. A stench I can only liken to cooked taco meat that has sat out on a stove for three weeks marauds you as you enter the underground. 

Now stuck up liberal yuppies will tell you that you must go to Paris for the food, wine, art, and the Eiffel Tower. If I wanted fancy food I would go to Red Lobster. I have actually been to Paris and I couldn’t find boxed wine anywhere, so I don’t know what these yuppie fucks are talking about. Also, I didn’t see Tom Hanks in the Louvre to show me clues about how Jesus secretly is a panda in the San Diego zoo. So clearly the museums were a waste of time. Lastly, the Eiffel Tower looks much better with a Casino in the background that sells giant Margaritas.

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!

England

I’ve spoken about England before and because of their tongue and connection to our own country, they are the least reprehensible of the rest of the world. However, that is one reason to avoid England. It’s basically the same as the United States but they talk funny and cars drive in the opposite direction on the road. I’m pretty sure I can recreate these circumstances on a Tuesday night with a few good friends and a couple of bottles of whiskey. Cheers!

In Soviet Russia, vodka drinks you!

Russia is known for their alcohol, vast expanses of nothingness, and corruption. Buy some Stolichnaya, drive through Nebraska, and try to buy off the state trooper when you get pulled over for driving very too fast. No matter the outcome, you will be better off because you won’t run the risk of encountering these Ruskies:

Drago eats nails for breakfast, uses small children as punching bags, and doesn't know the Cold War ended. Beware.

The Russian Prime Minister, Vladimir Putin, likes to wait in the woods for foreigners. 

Africa

Let’s be honest somewhere around ninety five percent of Americans cannot name more than five cities in Africa. To Americans Africa is a blackhole. People who go there rarely come back and little is known about it. Americans know about as much concerning Africa as Bill Clinton knows about Hillary’s fun stuff. But if you are one of those Americans who is curious to know more about institutions that haven’t had much significance in a long time, just go to a Chicago Cubs game. It will save you a lot of time and you probably won’t get dysentery from the hot dogs.   

Italy wantsa meatballa!!!

Yeah you do Italy, you want those meatballs…mmmm… Oh I’m sorry please excuse me. I didn’t think anyone was still reading.

Italy fascinates me so. It’s not the society that the Romans built or the history of the Roman Catholic Church and the Vatican. It’s not the Vespas or the Lamborghinis. The men and the food are what really captivate my mind.

When in Italy I was overcome with confusion. At every corner I saw men wearing capris, or more appropriately manpris. For the record, capris are barely acceptable for women. They are pants that just will not make up their mind. Are they short pants, known as shants? Are they extreme floods? Are they really long shorts? I find capris to be the single most useless piece of clothing a woman can buy. Men should never buy these hybrid pants that were clearly a result of a few fashion designers playing god in a laboratory.

The face of this 'man' is withheld to secure 'his' personal safety.

It makes me smile every morning knowing that Italian Americans are much more savvy in almost every way to Italians. The fancy, borderline feminine dress just does not stand under the good old red, white, and blue. In fact, just to stand apart from those Italians who are too estrogenically connected, Italian Americans make a point to be burly, gruff, and disconnected from vanity. Take these Italian Americans as a prime example:

Nice headbands bros

Eastern Block

As you travel further East in Europe, the scenic views disappear and smog dominates the horizon. The sun refuses to shine so as not to give anyone living there a false sense of hope. The smell of unchecked industry crawls into your nose and refuses to leave. If the bleak surroundings of Eastern Europe are what you desire, why not try Detroit? It will save you some time and you can take in some old fashioned American pollution with a McDonald's burger.  

Latin America

The only reason to visit Latin America is to be ironic and steal a native person’s job. If you are ballsy enough to steal a Spanish speaking person’s job, then props to you and your intense principled stand.

He's got the right idea (picture via Meet A Stranger).

Otherwise Americans should stay away from Latin American tourist traps. Instead go to the local Taquería, fumble your way through ordering your tacos in Spanish, and call it a night. 

China

Impressive traffic jams that literally last for days on end are found near the big cities of China. Spewing from these is a layer of smog so heavy the sun can’t penetrate through it. Chinese food is at every corner the eye can see. Yes this sounds like China, but it also sounds like Los Angeles. 

In a seventy-five mile traffic jam that can last days, an important question that arises is whether or not you poo in your Hyundai Sonata?

When you factor in that there are billions of Chinese people in China who are trying to take world control away from the majestic Bald Eagle and company, the choice is pretty obvious. 

Vietnam and Southeast Asia

There are only two groups of Americans allowed to return to Vietnam. The first is obviously John Rambo. If the Army needs Rambo to retrieve soldiers, intelligence, or anything else he is allowed to travel there. For the record, Rambo is his own group of people. When you can hold off the police for days in the forest, your badassery merits acknowledgements like these.

Veterans returning to meet with ex-lovers, bastard children, and opium dealers they made friends with during the war constitute the second group of people. Sometimes honoring the troops means letting your husband go back to reunite with the prostitute he railed forty some odd years ago. For the record, much is made of the fact that you can go to these poor Asian nations and find cheap hookers of all sizes, shapes, and ages. If nasty sex is what you really want you don’t have to leave the land of the Stars and Stripes. Move to Las Vegas or become a priest. It’s quite simple. 

Canada, eh?

Oh Canada, the top hat of the USA. Like a top hat should, Canada makes the USA classy. These funny talking, nature orientated souls have few problems eating moose, pooing on ice, and drinking Labatt Blue. While we rarely give them credit, Canada makes the USA look amazingly refined by comparison.

To quote the most honest t-shirt I ever wore, “Canada, they started a country and nobody came”. So why should I come to Canada when I can go bear hunting in Minnesota like a true American, holding my semi-automatic rifle that will surely render that bear completely useless?

You're Welcome

I grow weary of churning out this truth for you to read. While I could continue to embolden the opinion that never leaving the United States is not only possible but also advisable, I think you can put the rest of the puzzle pieces together. I hope this serves to set the record straight that when I cut myself while scaling Mount Rushmore, I bleed red, white, and blue. 

Will you be mine, TSA agent?

I am sitting in the office today with nothing to do at the moment. Fact is I have quite a bit to do but the government’s computer network is down. I’ve come to notice that it is down almost all the time. Somehow we could send a man to the moon on a computer system you would find in a modern day blender but we can’t exchange basic information anymore. I can’t complain too much because I have been meaning to write something for this train wreck I call a blog. So thank you to the Illinois Department of Health and Human Services for being almost as incompetent as I am. 

Thanksgiving has come and gone and as always our ritualistic slaughter of turkey has left us with bulging belt lines, indigestion, and shame. When you visit three houses on Thanksgiving like I did that’s more than one dinner, dessert, and drink. And that’s a whole lotta shame. However, it could have been much worse. I could have been traveling through an airport this holiday season. Travelers had a wonderful choice between a grope session that didn’t even culminate with a happy ending or a virtual strip search. 

That's a nice belt buckle.

I myself am glad that the government has finally found a good use for perverts and pedophiles. How is it okay to strip search a thirteen year old girl in this fashion? Or a thirteen year old boy for that matter? For some reason in an airport we're all guilty until proven innocent.

 

This job must attract a certain type of individual. For example, someone similar to this guy:

Don't fuck with Jesus

The only solace I get from this terrible debacle is that for every hot girl or hot guy a TSA agent gets to see virtually stripped down, they have to endure the strip search of a 500 pound man with a fungus that emits an odor so disgraceful your throat convulses. You might enjoy those twenty seconds looking at the hot girl, but you will never forget the smell wafting out the rolls of that disgusting man. 

My personal view on this issue is that you must get to know your TSA agent a little. Before you can go through a body scanner and let them see you naked you have to make them work for it. A firm grope of your testicles or breasts goes a long way to build trust. Since your checking to see if I can hide explosives around my taint I want you to be sure and really give my schlong a good pull. And even though you would think someone walking through the airport with a cantaloupe sized bulge in his pants would be targeted first, you can check out my little bulge. I know you’re just curious. 

Be prepared for maximum fondling

Moreover we, as citizens, have the opportunity to make this whole process much nicer for the TSA agents. Like I said before, their nightmares will surely include the cankles, elephant odors, chili-breath, involuntary flatulence, and heavy breathing of the growing portion of Americans who have to pay for two plane seats. So what can we do to make this a better experience for the TSA? I made a list of things now okay to bring to the airport. 

·         Bikinis/Speedos: Wearing your swim suit helps the TSA in two ways. First, they still get to check out your goods but don’t have to x-ray you to do so. This also makes the pat-down process much easier because you have so little to hide.

·         Wine: In any foreplay situation, wine is a good way to warm up both parties. Remember to have it poured for your agent when you get to the front of the line to save time. You can then sniff and savor the wine before getting felt up. It's just like at home!

·         Something ribbed for her pleasure.

·         Oh yeah we must not forget the lube because every time we have to go through this bullshit we’re taking it up the ass. And you don’t want to do that without lube.

The Creature

For those of you who may be unaware, the Southside of Chicago is a peculiar place. There is a vibrant Irish stronghold that livens up the neighborhoods. Overall, the area consists of blue-collared, hardworking, Catholic Americans. If you drove around you would come across numerous Catholic grammar schools, about one every two square miles. St. Germaine, Saint Louis, Saint Bede, Most Holy Redeemer, Saint Linus, Saint Al’s, Christ the King, Saint Barnabas, Saint Christina are all within an eight minute drive of each other. I could name more but I don’t want to put any non-religious types off by brandishing my knowledge of Saints. And while you would think that this was too many, it’s not. The schools are all filled with students eager to learn how Jesus is shaking his head in disapproval and contemplating sending you to hell when you think about sex or God forbid touch yourself. 

The Southside Irish Parade marks the beginning of the New Year. Southsiders do not use the Gregorian Calendar.

One thing about Catholics is that they are aficionados of the drink. On the Southside, we’re not talking Merlot, wine coolers, Smirnoff Ice, Mike’s Hard Lemonade or other drinks that would cause someone to question your sexuality. We’re talking whiskey, beer, and vodka. Around these parts, the drink is less of a beverage option and more of a hobby. For some, it’s a way of life.     

So naturally one night last week I found myself and some friends contemplating the bar. It was a night like no other. Some would call it the perfect storm. As I would find out, it was more appropriately called sensory overload. On this particular night the Blackhawks were on television, the Bulls had their first game of the season, and the World Series was starting. Wanting to go somewhere where we could watch all of these wonderful contests of testosterone in relative peace, we chose a small bar near our homes that wouldn’t be playing Taylor Swift over the games. We’ll get back to this night later, but first we need to Tarantino this story. 

The Perfect Storm was also a Blockbuster thriller about eating Taco Bell & McDonald's in the same day. In this scene, two fishermen empty their bowels.

Murphy’s Law is the bar’s name and on a weekday I can only describe it as sadness mixed with regret and failed dreams. Now I can make such a daring statement because a friend of mine worked there for about a year. To keep her company some friends and I would visit her. During this time I came to know Murphy’s Law quite well, as well as its cast of characters.

The Patriot

A casual discussion about how amazing the Blackhawks logo is during a game last season turned into a McCarthy era witch-hunt one night when I was introduced to this wonderful patriot. A short, fat old man was he, who every time I saw him was wearing the same Green Bay Packers sweatshirt. Either there was a box of them that fell off a truck onto his lawn or he only owns one sweatshirt.  Someone had brought up the issue of teams being forced to change Indian logos for political correctness and this man was horrified. Truly horrified and confused. I was horrified because he had never heard of this. Apparently he hasn’t watched the news in the last decade or so. In hindsight this is not surprising, he is a patriot. What is the news good for when you already know the answers? Jesus, America, kill terrorists/communists/Nazis. Prosper while living the American dream. Simple.

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday! Jesus versus Osama Bin Laden in the CAGE OF DEATH!

During the course of the conversation I tried to be empathetic for the sake of carrying on talk. I had explained that although I don’t agree with the logos being changed, I can understand their point of view. We did kill all of their people, their marvelous buffalos, and then took all of their land. Even though we have forgotten, they might not have. This is when the patriot stared me down. A long and deep stare that burned my pupils and nearly caused me to fall off the stool. This was a stare I imagined coming from a drunken grandfather waiting for just the right moment to whack you across the head. After what seemed like ages he spoke.

Son, what are you? 

I was taken aback by this question. I thought well not a vampire if that is what you’re getting at. Why was he staring at me so much? What is he looking for? Fangs, bite marks, other visible marks that I am not human? What? So I responded with the best answer I could come up with for that random and odd question.

I’m Nick? A teacher?

I actually questioned my own identity as I said it. I wasn’t sure what he was getting at. The patriot responded

The only right answer to that question is American. 

He went on and on about kids these days and some more clichés abut hoodlums being on his lawn, the American flag and what it represents. In his head surely he was skeptical that I might be working in conjunction with the Sioux to take back the land the whites had rightly taken from the Indians. It was during this rant I barely listened to that it hit me. Alright, you’re one of those people. Let’s close up this conversation quickly because I would much rather not talk to you anymore. There are darts over there, so I’m going to go over there.  

The Drunk/Alcoholic

Now lots of people are alcoholics. There are different definitions of alcoholism giving different amounts of drinks per week but it’s all the same. If you drink so much you’re an alcoholic, you are most likely alienating yourself from people and most likely your job. It becomes the top of your priority list. For those of you who may not drink or not have many experiences with these people, it isn’t as easy to pick out an alcoholic as you think. The guy who is peeing down the side of his leg in the bathroom is not an alcoholic. He’s a drunk. The lady who threw up outside, fell down and unknowingly exposed herself to passersby is not an alcoholic. She’s a drunk. During all the commotion the man you sit next to at the bar and are having a decent conversation with is the alcoholic. You just didn’t notice the bartender take the previous 18 bottles away.

A drunk drinks copious amounts of drink and wakes up in the morning with shades of regret and possibly syphilis. An alcoholic can’t understand why his wife would get mad at him after coming home from the bar and staying up to drink another thirty beers. That’s not normal sir, you are an alcoholic.

Moreover, alcoholics make you feel bad. Not on purpose but just because he or she is in that situation. However a drunk makes you laugh. A drunk makes you feel better about yourself because you’re not the one passed out hovering a foot above your own shit in a bathroom at the bar. Oh yeah, and the stall door is open. You should clean up that jungle you got going on down there.  

   

The Couple

There were two or three couples consistently in the bar. I wonder if they really imagined on their honeymoon night that they would spend their later days getting blitzed in a bar next to a Boston Market.  

The Prostitute

Now I don’t have proof of this claim. I never procured any favors personally. But whenever I saw that gross greasy blond hair and that heroin-thin body walking towards me I made some room. Believe me, I made room.

The Mutes  

Now for the most part at a bar like this there is not a lot of lively conversation. That’s not to say it is quiet but a lot of the patrons have the same routine. Come in. Order the beer. Drink the beer. Watch TV. Order more beer. I often what the point of coming out to the bar is if you don’t plan on socializing with anyone. Couldn’t you just stay at home, ignore your wife, and drink beer in front of your own television? Not that it matters that much to me but it might save you some money. 

Hoods are not Acceptable

The perfect storm is raging at full throttle. Hawks are winning, of course. Bulls are losing, of course. And Texas is taking it up the Chocolate Highway from San Francisco as the games move towards their final stretches. I’ve seen a lot of crazy drunks in this bar but this guy was by far the craziest. He had that look on his face that you see only when you know a person has absolutely no idea what is going on. This look makes you question that he can even see you standing in front of him. My friend was wearing a knit hat and a hood over it. 

Crazy Old Man: Hey son, are you wearing a hat and a hood?

Friend: Uhh, yeah.

Crazy Old Man: You look like a… You look like a…

Friend: I look like a what?

Crazy Old Man: You look like a…

Friend: You’re talking like a crazy person. 

Stop. Now obviously you don’t call a drunken crazy person crazy. You might be able to get away with it when he’s sober but surely not when he’s drunk. Might as well poke a bear. 

After a tirade by the old crazy man about how he was only half crazy, how my friend should watch himself and how the government is stealing his white blood cells, the man returned to his stool. He grumbled to a couple of the regulars about how kids have no respect. It is absolutely unacceptable to wear a hat and a hood in an establishment like this one. This, coming from the man elegantly adorned in a t-shirt covered in paint sitting next to the guy that always wears that same Packers sweatshirt. But this old crazy man couldn’t let this outrage go and kept discussing it with the guys at the bar until the Patriot told him to settle down. I know these kids; they’re good kids he explained. Shortly after this the drunken idiot left the bar.

Now that’s when I realized that I was a part of this group. The Patriot knew me. He knew my friends. We were good people. I am one of the young ones. That’s the worst one to be. I wonder which of these old guys used to be the young one. They probably think the same way about me as I do about them. He’s the one who only comes in when the young girl is bartending. He’s always playing darts and smoking and I’m pretty sure he’s a freedom hating hippie because he always has those tie-dye shirts on. Did you hear what he said about Indians once? He might be a Lakota. No one thinks like that. 

Now they can think whatever they want it makes no difference to me. It had been a long time since we had been in that bar, but once I realized that we were members of this elite group of people, I decided I will never go back there again.